


Claudia's Diary, September 1846

by Fiddle_Faddle



Category: Interview With the Vampire (1994), Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Canon-Typical Vampirism, Canon-typical First Person POV, Communication Failure, Diary/Journal, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Family Bonding, Fluff and Angst, Implied Lesbianism, M/M, References to Shakespeare, Shakespeare Quotations, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26784922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiddle_Faddle/pseuds/Fiddle_Faddle
Summary: "And why should I bother to tell of the times [...] we walked together and talked together, acted Shakespeare together for Claudia's amusement [...]"- The Vampire LestatAfter a night out at the theater leads to some family bonding time at home, Claudia muses in her diary about her relationship with her gentlemen parents. And their relationship to each other.
Relationships: Claudia & Lestat de Lioncourt, Claudia & Louis de Pointe du Lac, Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Pointe du Lac
Comments: 10
Kudos: 65





	Claudia's Diary, September 1846

**Author's Note:**

> After 13 years in this fandom, I finally wrote something! (Also, I don't prefer first person POV, but this story worked best that way.)

_September, 1846_

They think I don't see it, my gentlemen parents. 

They pretend their relationship is not the same as the relationships between married men and women. I know better. We are an unconventional family, we three vampires, but not as unconventional as they would like me to believe. The both of them are mother and father to me, as they are both man and wife to each other, they encapsulate and transcend these simple mortal notions. Whether they openly admit it or not. 

I see the way Lestat preens at the slightest bit of Louis' attention, when Louis truly looks at him and sees him as a person, instead an obstacle in his way. I see the way Louis smiles and relaxes on the occasions that Lestat is content to sit quietly with him, the two of them just existing together in the same space, stealing covert glances when the other's eyes are turned away. 

They think I don't notice that they look upon each other like I look upon my women victims. When I, deep in the night, stumble across a lone whore who looks at me as if I were a lost child, and I look at her unsure if my desire is to attack or to embrace. Unsure if I long to _be_ her or to _have_ her. Unsure if what I want is the blood in her veins to pulse in my own or the heart in her chest to beat for me. 

What my gentlemen parents feel for each other is as clear as the whore's pilfered crystal earrings. Yet they stumble over each other trying to maintain a stability that is doomed to fail. 

The dysfunctional dance the two of them play is well rehearsed. Louis will lead Lestat, with a look or some sort of acknowledgment. Often just a smile in Lestat's general direction will suffice. Lestat will step into the dance with exuberance, responding to Louis in kind. The both of them will instantly fall into each other’s arms. But before long, Louis will become too overwhelmed to continue the dance, withdrawing back into himself. Lestat will try to draw him out again, only to become enraged when Louis is no longer responsive. At that point, a brief and bitter row will erupt in which both of them fail to actually communicate with each other, resulting in days of sullenness and melancholy on both their parts. Louis will retreat into his books, holing himself away in the solitude of his study. Lestat will seek me out so he may have my attention to replace Louis's. Then, before long, peace will be restored and things will be content for a time, only for the whole dance to begin anew. 

It’s horribly predictable. 

The latest dance began not too long ago with three tickets to see a new production of Romeo and Juliet. Louis led by presenting them to Lestat. Lestat was overjoyed - we hadn’t gone to a play as a family in a long while. His enthusiasm was so infectious that even Louis wasn't immune. Nor was I when Lestat swept me up into his arms to dance us around the flat, skirting around the furniture with ease, until we were both breathlessly giggling and Louis was looking at us fondly. 

The night of the play saw us fed early and dressed our best at Lestat's insistence. Lestat picked out lace and floral for me, I picked out silk and brocade for him, and the both of us put Louis in a frock coat lined in a burgundy that matched my dress and Lestat’s waistcoat. The doorman at the theatre complimented our well dressed family, telling me that I was the exact likeness of my father - obviously meaning Lestat. Lestat was quick to rattle off the old lie, that he was actually my uncle and Louis was my father, spinning a pointless tale for the sake of the humans. And the humans do so need their world to make sense, to fit into little unassuming boxes as if doing so will make it seem less frightening. 

Poor misguided fools.

Once we were through the door and away from the crowds, we quickly settled ourselves inside our usual box and waited for the red velvet curtains to rise.

The whole way back to the flat Lestat complained happily about how terrible the actress playing Juliet had been. I do believe he gets as much enjoyment out of criticizing the bad actors as he does praising the good ones. His diatribe was amusingly hyperbolic, including feigned regret that the old rules forbidding women on the stage were long gone. He insisted they should be reinstated just so that that actress in particular could never butcher Shakespeare ever again.

"I suppose you think you could have done better," I said to him when he paused to unlock the gate. 

"I certainly could!" Lestat responded, rising to the challenge.

"I will believe that when I see it." And I did want to see it. Imagine! Lestat, an infatuated young girl. The very idea is frankly ridiculous. A thirteen year old girl, doomed to die young. Though, it does make me wonder… it makes my mind traverse well worn, yet macabre paths. _Would_ he die for his love like Juliet? Would he take the dagger to his own heart? And, as I have pondered before with the same intellectual curiosity that I give to philosophical questions, could he even die at all? What would it take to cause the destruction of this creature before me? What does death really mean for a vampire? For anyone?

Lestat’s voice shook me from my intrusive thoughts. Thoughts that he himself would have scoffed at for being too gloomy. 

"I would gladly show you, ma petite puce, but…" Lestat turned thoughtful at that, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes before they flicked over to Louis. "If I'm to play Juliet, I will need a Romeo."

"Lestat…" Louis shook his head, shutting the front door. 

"Oh, come now, Louis," Lestat said, taking his arm and leading him into the parlour. "For our daughter."

Louis looked over at me beseechingly but I, eager for the amusement, just gave him my most charming smile, the one I know he is unable to resist. 

He sighed in defeat. "If I must."

Lestat grinned so wide that I thought his head might split in half. "We could do Hamlet, if that's more to your taste." He grabbed Louis by the chin and began to recite, as though he were holding a bare skull that wasn't encased in preternatural flesh, "Alas, poor Louis! I knew him, Claudia." 

I laughed at that. Louis pushed his hand away, a ghost of a smile on his lips in spite of himself. 

"You said you could do Juliet, not Hamlet," I pointed out to get them back to the task at hand. They need a lot of gentle handling, my fathers.

"And Juliet I will be, if that is your wish, mademoiselle," Lestat said with a flourishing bow. “And what scene do you wish to see? The balcony scene?”

“No, father. Juliet’s death scene.” It was what I had been thinking about, in any case. Lestat seemed a bit taken aback at my request - he forgets more often than even Louis that I am not the innocent human child I appear to be - before he recovered enough to badger Louis into moving the settee so there was room for a little impromptu stage. Louis, for his part, seemed to just be glad that all he had to do was pretend to be dead. 

“O churl!" Lestat recited, kneeling on the parquet floor next to Louis. "Drunk all and left no friendly drop to help me after? I will kiss thy lips. Haply some poison yet doth hang on them to make me die with a restorative.” Lestat kissed Louis’ lips lightly, pulling back barely an inch to whisper, “Thy lips are warm!” Then he pressed a firmer, more lingering kiss on Louis’ mouth, his hands clutching at Louis’ shirt. I could hear Louis’ heartbeat quicken in his chest, see his fingers twitch as he tried to keep himself still. 

As the kiss continued to linger for an inordinately long moment, I cleared my throat sharply, feeling exasperated, fond, annoyed. Perhaps all three at once.

Lestat finally pulled away from Louis, blinking hard. He shook himself a little and went on with the scene. “Yea, noise? Then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger, this is thy sheath. There rust and let me die.” With a dramatic flourish he mimed stabbing himself in the heart and collapsing as if in death. 

“Bravo!” I cheered, applauding Lestat as he pulled himself off the floor. Overzealous kiss aside, he certainly did give a far superior performance than that actress had. Unsurprising, considering I'm pretty sure he sees all the world as _his_ stage. 

He smiled at me and bowed deeply. “Should it not be ‘brava’?” He asked, offering a hand to help Louis up. Their hands stayed clasped together for several moments longer than necessary, eyes drinking each other in like blood. 

I wanted to sigh at their oblivious lack of subtlety, but I let them be for the moment, answering Lestat's question instead. "Bravo, brava. It doesn't really matter to us in the end. If you want a 'brava' for playing Juliet then you can have it. Brava!" I clapped again. 

“Ah, merci beaucoup!”

"Personally, I'm surprised you didn't want a 'bravissimo,' Lestat," Louis commented, his mouth quirked slightly upward. 

"Don't be ridiculous," Lestat scoffed, mock offended. "A ramshackle production such as this hardly deserves such high praise. Even if my acting was superb." A curious expression crossed Lestat's face as he spoke, but it was gone before I could identify it. It made me wary somehow, but luckily Lestat's mood remained cheerful. 

"And he’s so humble too," Louis said, having missed the strange expression. 

Lestat laughed, clearly delighted that Louis was engaging so playfully with him. As Lestat responded to Louis’ jest, I realized they could be bantering like this for some time, there were hours still before dawn. I made some excuse to them and left the flat, thinking I might go wander around Lafayette Cemetery for the rest of the night.

By the time I returned, the house was dark and Lestat's door was firmly closed. As dawn drew nearer, I settled into the coffin Louis and I shared, alone. I woke up the same way. 

From that night on Lestat's mood remained cheerful, and even Louis seemed to be in good spirits, as they resumed their slow and carefully measured flirtations. A look here, a caress there, as they began to spend longer portions of the evening in each other's company instead of mine. I'd learned long ago to take advantage of these times, to pursue my own secret interests - things I didn't wish to share with either of them. I had a whole mental list of things to keep me occupied. Last time they were distracted by each other I took the opportunity to read de Sade, since I knew Louis would never approve and Lestat may or may not have approved. It can be hard to tell with him; he didn't want me reading _Oliver Twist_ for some odd reason (I read it anyway, of course). This time, however, I was reading Sappho and I felt the need to read her work on my own, without Lestat's or even Louis’ viewpoints.

It had been a few weeks since their affair began when, last night, I could tell Louis was beginning to fall into one of his self-doubting moods. It was shortly after I returned home from my hunt, the taste of the young mother still on my lips. He was sitting by the fireplace, just staring into the flames like they held the solutions to all his troubles. Therefore when Lestat came in and began to badger Louis into going out to a cabaret with him, Louis brushed him off.

“You’re perfectly capable of going on your own. You don’t need me there with you.”

Oh, Louis, I thought, anticipating the fight that was about to begin. Of course he doesn’t need you there. He _wants_ you there. Not that Lestat would ever say something so sentimental out loud, instead he expects us to somehow intuit his feelings and then winds up frustrated when we cannot. 

“Need you? I don’t _need_ you for anything!” Lestat blustered. 

“No, not me. Just my money,” Louis muttered, bitterly.

And so it began. Their light bickering quickly turned into shouting (which I don’t care to document here) before Lestat stormed off in a huff and Louis slunk off to his study. He’s still locked away in there this evening. He probably only left briefly to hunt once Lestat and I went out to find our own victims. I have been perfectly capable of hunting on my own for years, but I thought it was better to let myself be dragged along with Lestat. A second rejection in as many nights would just make his anger worse and it would never be me that he took that anger out on. So I let him pick out my clothes, dress my hair, and whisk me off to kill whomever struck his fancy. It's as simple as that to cheer him up. And, unsurprisingly, his victim of the night ending up being a young man with dark wavy hair and green eyes. 

It's not as simple to cheer Louis up, unfortunately. It’s usually best to let him have his privacy until he feels lonely enough to venture out amongst us again. So, as much as I wish I could do otherwise, I'm leaving him be for now. 

These little arguments between them, rare though they are, used to frighten me years and years ago. I used to fear that Louis would leave, or Lestat would leave, or they both would leave and I would be all alone. These days I am well aware that minor quarrels are quickly forgotten and moved past. The longer lasting periods of peace in the house are integral to our cohabitation. No, the arguments are nothing to be feared, and in fact I find them quite tedious now. I wish they would learn another dance. After almost five decades, I am honestly curious to see how long it takes for them to sort themselves out.

I would try to help them, myself, but they wouldn’t listen to my advice if I chose to give it. Instead they would brush me off - Louis politely, Lestat curtly - as though I’m just a silly child, worrying over nothing. We could spend all night together discussing Voltaire or Rousseau, but they still wouldn't take my thoughts about something less theoretical into account. I am, after all, just a doll to them. A doll to dress up, a doll to play with, a doll to hold. Not that I hate these things, necessarily, but I want more than that. I _am_ more than that.

But, I suppose, even if they were more inclined to listen to me, that would require them to acknowledge their dance of dysfunction. It’s easy for them to admit they love me, but to admit they love each other? Impossible. Maybe if they did, they wouldn’t hate each other so much. Then again, maybe not.

Oh well, in a night or two they will get over it. Lestat will forget that he was even angry in the first place. Louis will follow Lestat’s lead this time and the integral peace of the house will descend once more. I wonder about this peace sometimes. How essential is it really? If it was ever truly shattered, would our happy little trio shatter with it? Or would we finally be able to have a deep discussion about something less academic and more meaningful? Or maybe that is just wishful thinking.

I must confess that, while I hold great affection for them, it seems that none of us truly know each other. Yet, at the same time… they are all I know… all I have. How long will I suffer this cold estrangement from them? How long will my disaffection continue to grow? I sit here comfortably on my bed, the knitted counterpane folded at the foot, the lace curtains pulled back, listening to the silence of the house around me. A house that I know, at times, can be filled with laughter and song. I love those times, I live for those times. But it’s not enough.

Will I ever be brave enough to risk losing them, losing what we have, in order to really know them? Will I find the nerve to challenge the status quo? 

Or shall I remain forever unsatisfied?

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated!


End file.
